22. THEOLOGY
22
THEOLOGY
Fanny was to spend the rest of her life with the Booths on Wells Street. Here her niece Florence tried to be the same kind of companion Carrie had been. She has been described as a “tall, slim, pretty woman” with a pleasant disposition. She left business matters entirely to Eva Cleaveland, who came every day and handled all the correspondence and took down all the hymns and poems Fanny composed. In her late years, Fanny traveled less, but at home she did not get much rest, for she was constantly besieged by many visitors, including journalists who made her the subject of numerous newspaper and magazine articles. It is from these years that we get the most comprehensive picture of her thought, personality, and appearance.
Fanny now was physically little more than a skeleton. But there was a spirit shining through the decaying shell that made her beautiful. Her smile was said to have been lovely, and all reports speak of the great sweetness and beauty of her voice. She spoke with the rural New England accent that omits “r” and pronounces the final “o” as “er,” as in “Longfeller” (one of her favorite poets).
THERE WAS A SPIRIT SHINING THROUGH THE DECAYING SHELL THAT MADE HER BEAUTIFUL.
For someone so tiny, Aunt Fanny was a remarkably heavy eater. After downing a bowl of hot coffee after she arose at 11 a.m., she would eat a large lunch and later an equally heavy supper. She was very careful, though, about what she ate. She ate little meat but large quantities of eggs, fruit, and vegetables. She drank volumes of coffee and tea. Extremely tidy in dress and housekeeping, Fanny was especially fussy about her wig, which had to be “just so” before she would come downstairs, according to her grandniece, Florence Paine. Every morning she had someone read one of the New York papers to her.
During her free moments at home, Fanny spent a great deal of time at the piano in the Booth parlor. According to Mrs. Paine, she “could go from one extreme to another,” beginning with a classical composition, proceeding to her own hymns, finishing with ragtime. She delighted in “pepping things up”—playing old hymns in a jazzedup style. She also improvised and invented compositions of her own but would not permit anyone to write them down. She enjoyed singing; New York friends reported that at their sing-alongs she would cry out, “Open the window and let this music rise to heaven!”
Nearly every day at home, she was met by a solid stream of visitors on pilgrimage, as it were, to see the saint of Wells Street. So many wanted to meet her that they had to call Eva Cleaveland for appointments. People came from all walks of life, for all sorts of reasons. Many asked her advice in educating or rehabilitating a blind child, and this was especially hard for her.
People sought her help writing poetry, and she never withheld assistance. Some came who had no talent at all, but Fanny did get the opportunity to coach people with real ability. One was a young neighbor girl, Blanche Simpson, who came once a week. The poet was highly impressed with the girl’s verse and did all she could to assist in developing her talents. After each session, she assigned Blanche a poem to write in a particular meter or style. She also counseled Blanche about business matters, telling her there were publishing companies (not necessarily Biglow and Main) that did take advantage of those who provided them with hymns. She confided to Blanche that at times she had been taken advantage of by certain persons and cautioned her to beware.
Many came for her autograph; to accommodate them, she learned to write her name. Unscrupulous people also called on Aunt Fanny. Some seized articles of her clothing or jewelry and kept them as relics.
People appealed to Fanny by mail, too. An invalid woman in Missouri wrote for money to buy medicine. Others wrote for assistance in publishing poetry.
Fanny’s day usually ended at midnight. During the evenings, she dictated replies to correspondence and then retired to her room, where she prayed and wrote hymns for several hours. In later years, she slept poorly and spent hours awake in prayer for the intentions of those who had besought her by day. She also prayed for churches and other Christian institutions. By dawn, she was usually asleep.
The one fact most people knew about Fanny Crosby was that she was blind. Far from feeling self-pity, Fanny felt that on the whole, blindness was a special gift of God. She often said, “It was the best thing that could have happened to me,” and “How in the world could I have lived such a helpful life as I have lived had I not been blind?” She felt she would never have had the opportunity for an education had she not been blind. Had she not gone to the Institution in New York, she would not have had the contacts to enable her to write hymns for a nationally known publishing firm.
FANNY FELT THAT ON THE WHOLE, BLINDNESS WAS A SPECIAL GIFT OF GOD.
Moreover, she believed that sight must be a distraction. She attributed her great powers of concentration to blindness. She also felt that her lack of sight enabled her to develop a wonderful memory and enhanced her appeal as a speaker, creating a bond of sympathy between her and her audiences that made them more receptive to the Gospel message.
Fanny had very acute hearing and was sensitive to any discordance or disharmony. Once a man who had been denied access to visit her because she was asleep got her to wake and come out of her hotel room simply by walking down the hall and whisthng off-key.
Many wondered whether she harbored some bitterness toward the fraudulent doctor who prescribed the poultices that burned her eyes. She would always say tenderly, “Don’t blame the doctor. He is probably dead before this time. But if I could meet him, I would tell him that he unwittingly did me the greatest favor in the world.” Besides, she often expressed doubt whether even the best medical treatment could have helped her already defective eyes.
Fanny felt her lack of sight was more than compensated for by a “soul-vision” that she felt was made keener by physical darkness. She believed she could see into the spiritual world. Apparently, she was often aware of the state of the souls of persons with whom she dealt. She could tell who was sincere, who was phony, who was malevolent, and who was good-hearted.
Fanny’s spiritual counsel was so helpful and uplifting that many people asked her to write about her theology, but “I have never thought much about theology,” she would say. She had no interest in theology in the sense of an academic discipline in which religious beliefs are systematized or put on a philosophic basis. She saw spiritual wisdom proceeding not so much from the mind as from the heart and soul and from fellowship with Christ. She never asked herself, “Is this rational?” or “Is this logical?” She asked, “Is this from God?”
SHE NEVER ASKED HERSELF, “IS THIS RATIONAL?” OR “IS THIS LOGICAL?” SHE ASKED, “IS THIS FROM GOD?”
These convictions let her transcend the bounds of denominationalism. To her, people were “brothers” or “sisters” no matter what church they belonged to, if they believed in Jesus Christ as revealed by scripture.
The ultimate authority in Fanny Crosby’s life of faith was the Bible. She lived into the time when biblical critics were taking scripture apart and seemingly reassembling it according to the inclinations of human reason. Fanny was disturbed by this phenomenon, believing the Bible to be the “absolute authority” for the Christian life. Reason should be employed to help understand scripture, but scripture should not be subordinated to what its interpreters feel is “rational.” For Fanny, scripture was the absolute “norm of faith.”
In her later years, Fanny was often asked where she stood regarding the Bible. Such questions vexed her sorely. “I have no time to cavil over the Sacred Volume or raise questions of no value about the Word,” she said.
She felt a sermon should be preached and received as an oracle from heaven, and clergymen in their messages should be absolutely faithful to sacred scripture. For a pastor to preach on politics or poetry was a heresy that has “done more real harm to the growth of the kingdom of God among men than anything else.”
For Fanny, the true essence of Christianity was something to which the scriptures and sacraments merely pointed: a real and personal relationship with God. Fanny went to God with all her needs, great and small, firmly believing God answered prayers—if the request were in the best interest of the one who prayed.
Fanny was not of the school that thinks there is no evil in life. She believed in a real Satan and believed the evil in the world is real. And although He does not “order” it, God permits evil at times in order to bring good from it. As an example of this, Fanny cited the case of her own blindness.
She could be incredibly cheerful, even in suffering. She knew there was always a good reason for affliction. She would often quote Hebrews 12:6, saying, “Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth,” and commenting, “If I had no troubles, I’d think the Lord didn’t love me!”
Many supposed the cheerful disposition that manifested itself in Fanny’s later years was the result of a naturally happy disposition, but this was not necessarily so. We have seen how she was much beset by depression and discouragement early in life, and even in old age she admitted that her “life has been short of many things that some people would probably die rather than be without.” She had suffered, but in later years she could look back and see how God had brought her through.
Often asked why some of her happiest hymns were death hymns, Fanny replied, “Since my childhood, death has simply seemed to me a stepping-stone to something better. Why should I be sad about that? I have had moments when it almost seemed I had reached heaven. Could I possibly be less happy when I reach home for good?”
“SINCE MY CHILDHOOD, DEATH HAS SIMPLY SEEMED TO ME A STEPPING-STONE TO SOMETHING BETTER.”
Of her dead relatives, she was often heard to say, “Oh, well, they’re better off. They’ve just passed into the glorious land.” In that glorious land she expected to see them again. Of her destination, she was so certain that she criticized Lord Tennyson for writing, “I hope to see my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar.” Fanny’s correction: “I know I’ll meet my Pilot face to face!”
Her joy was not merely a calm and “holy” serenity, a dignified and subdued felicity, but often an outright jollity. She was considered a very funny person. A great practical jokester as a girl, she was mischievous even in old age. Her sermons and lectures were full of funny stories. She felt the best way to chide or criticize was by making people laugh at their own foibles.
Indeed, she often showed disapproval through a humorous comment. Once, at Phoebe Knapp’s apartments, she met a grave, pompous bishop and was turned off by his overdone sobriety. When the churchman had to excuse himself to leave, Fanny called out loudly, in the presence of the other guests, “For heaven’s sake, Bishop, stay sober!”
But she disliked talk that made light of sacred things. Once, after an insolent young caller had left, she remarked to Florence, “Oh, for a hammer to knock a lump of reverence into that man’s head!”
Aunt Fanny always had a special love for children. Whenever she spoke in a church, she would usually give a “children’s sermon” in addition to the regular talk. She loved to play with her grandnieces and nephews and the neighborhood children. At times, when she was in town, parents would leave their little ones in Aunt Fanny’s care.
By the time she was in her early eighties, Fanny was known as “the Methodist saint.” Social worker Ann Cobham, whom Fanny frequently visited at her Pennsylvania estate, was not alone when she said the hymnist was “the most wonderful person living.”